The closer they got to the show, the more quiet and impassive Curtis became, gesturing with his long hands to indicate “louder” or “softer” or “faster” or “slower” instead of speaking the words. He was living in the practice space now, in a pup tent, having given up his apartment (and the unfriendly girl installed in it) and quit his job at a coffee shop in order to devote every waking minute to the band. Dave had started biting his cuticles again, after years on the wagon. He awoke in the early morning, breathless and anxious, with the feeling that he had somehow boarded a train that refused to stop. This was his chance, his shot—things were going, somehow, to change, would change irrevocably, so that his life would be divided into “before” and “after” the show—and yet, somehow he had, he felt, already missed it, already messed it up.
Exactly a week before the show they broke early—they were sniping and snarling at one another, anyway, and fumbling, now, even on songs they knew well—and went to sit at Pedro’s short, cruddy bar. Marco and the others sipped Maker’s Mark while the bass player recounted some long story about a member of Sleater-Kinney, who had been married to some indie rock guy, but they were now divorced and had formed a band together, which was much better than Sleater-Kinney. Quasi, thought Dave, yes, tell me something I don’t know. But he pretended the bass player, whose name also happened to be Dave, was providing him with new and fascinating information and drained his beer. I should go home, he thought, I hate these people.
But he hated even more the thought of being left out of anything, anything, they did, and so he ordered another beer and before he could finish it Curtis slid onto the stool next to him, mumbling “Hey” to Dave and gesturing to the bartender for another round. Several days’ worth of patchy beard covered his pale cheeks and a sharp smell wafted from parts of his long body that Dave didn’t want to think about. There was no bathroom in the practice space—just a grimy shared toilet down the hall—and he was showering, presumably not very often, at Marco’s. “So,” said Dave, already weary of the conversation, already hating whatever was going to come out of his mouth next. He turned into a moron when left alone with Curtis. “So, we sound pretty good, huh.” Curtis nodded.
“Yeah, I guess,” he said. It speaks, thought Dave. “I’m just really stressed out about…” His voice trailed off and he raised his hand, making an incomprehensible gesture, a sort of circular wave.
“I know, I know,” said Dave, shaking his head. “It’s rough. It’s a lot of pressure.”
“Exactly,” Curtis replied, sighing deeply. “I didn’t think it would be like this. I didn’t think it would happen this way. That we’d have something so…” He waved his hands again.
“Big?” Dave offered.
“Yeah! Something so big, so quick. You know?” Dave nodded. He’d not expected this either—no, that was a lie, in a strange way, he had, that’s why he’d stayed on. Though he wasn’t entirely sure what the gig would mean for them. A deal? With a small label? Or a big one? (Didn’t big labels stick to bland pop acts these days? But then, didn’t big labels own all the small labels now anyway? Though Merge was still independent, he supposed, and maybe Kill Rock Stars.) And, if so, how would their lives change? Would they suddenly have money? He knew—having dated the girl from Their Own Devices (she’d be at the Thursday night show)—that a band could become kind of famous without actually making any money. But he also knew that sometimes—who knew why?—particular bands became instantly popular. First, you’d see them written up in the Voice or New York Press, a small blurb, maybe, explaining the group’s merits and urging you to go to their show Wednesday at the Knitting Factory or Arlene Grocery or Luna. Then there’d be a little something in Time Out, with a big photo (five guys against a red wall, disheveled in old cords) and a coolly sycophantic profile, dubbing them as, maybe, “the best band you’ve never heard of” or “Brooklyn’s best-kept secret.” Next, flipping through The New Yorker, you’d see a little sketch of the band (Buddy Holly glasses, vintage Converse, shaggy hair) in the “Goings On About Town” section (Saturday at Mercury Lounge or Northsix), and you’d think, Oh, I heard they were good. Where did I hear that? At the dentist, you’d find a photo in the “Cue” section of New York. And then, before you knew it, there they’d be, on the cover of Time Out, for the annual music issue or whatever, in which they promote five new bands as The Next Big Thing. Days later, the cover of their album would appear in the window of the Virgin Megastore, magnified a hundredfold, in between the latest horrors from Janet Jackson and Celine Dion. Presumably, their single would be getting some serious airplay (Dave didn’t listen to the radio), the corollary video in heavy rotation on MTV, and they would be appearing on Saturday Night Live and Letterman and Conan. And your friends, who saw them months ago at the Knitting Factory, would be saying, “No, they’re really good. I know they’re everywhere, but they’re actually really good.” And sometimes, they were. It could happen, Dave thought, to us. It could. He glanced at the other guys, who were now talking about some girl they knew who was dating Stephen Malkmus. They lived and breathed this stuff. Were they lying awake at night, Schlitz buzz going sour, imagining the moment the Sub Pop A&R guy approached them backstage? Or, what? Dave couldn’t get past that point, the offer, the approach. He didn’t know what would happen after. It was, for him, like sex: when he fantasized about it, he never got past the seduction.
A crumpled pack of Basics had materialized on the bar. Curtis pulled two out and handed one to Dave as if they were old friends. “You really think we sound good?” he asked. Dave shrugged. “Yeah, yeah,” Curtis muttered, shaking his head slowly, indicating neither yes nor no, but some sort of befuddlement. His lips were full, the sort described as bee-stung when possessed by women, and looked out of place with his otherwise sparse features. “’Cause I have this weird feeling that we’re getting worse.”
“No, no, man, no way,” said Dave, though he knew, as he said it, that it was a lie, that the shows—the thought, the threat, of the shows—were, it was true, having some sort of pernicious, soul-draining effect on Curtis, who seemed to be losing his Buddha-like countenance, his flannel-shirted imperviousness to—no, disregard for—the treats and temptations of the normal, lucre-propelled world. All of a sudden it dawned on him: Curtis wanted it. That’s why he was rattled. He wanted it all. The record deal, the European tour, the Rolling Stone cover. He had wanted it all along, wanted it rabidly, wanted it so badly he couldn’t even speak. And suddenly Dave liked him.
“Well,” Dave said, “it’s probably for the best, right? Nobody’d sign us if we were too good. Right? It’s all about mediocrity.” To his surprise, Curtis laughed—a true, honest-to-God, fully formed laugh, which gave Dave an embarrassing sense of satisfaction. He likes me, he thought, and the thrill this gave him immediately dissolved into shame. He was drunk, he realized.
“Seriously,” said Curtis, scrutinizing the still-pristine filter of his cigarette. His voice had dropped down to its normal whisper. “I don’t think it’s working. It’s like, we sound too much the same, you know. I keep”—he waved his hands and shook his head—“futzing with it, but it’s still not right. We need something else, you know?”